Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
The walls were never perfect.
They carried fractures
from old storms,
silent tears,
unspoken disappointments,
and years of pretending
Everything was fine.
Paint peeled slowly in forgotten corners.
The ceiling held memories
too heavy to explain.
And some nights,
the house echoed with loneliness
so loudly
it almost sounded alive.
But somehow,
happiness still entered.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
It slipped through cracked windows
with morning sunlight.
It arrived quietly
through small laughter,
warm tea,
unexpected kindness,
and peaceful moments
that asked for nothing in return.
The broken walls watched it happen.
They watched tired hearts
learn how to smile again.
Watched exhausted souls
rest without guilt for the first time.
Watched healing arrive softly,
without needing perfection first.
Because happiness was never waiting
for life to become flawless.
It bloomed in messy kitchens,
inside imperfect people,
between unfinished conversations,
and within hearts
still learning how to carry pain gently.
And maybe that is the beautiful thing
about cracked walls.
They let the light in.
They remind people
that even damaged places
can still hold warmth,
peace,
love,
and reasons to keep going.
So if your life feels imperfect right now,
If your walls feel worn thin from surviving,
remember this:
Even cracked places
are still capable
of holding happiness.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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